


I loved a maid as fair as summer

by IceisAwesome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arya and Sansa heal in Dorne, Canon Relationships, Catelyn Lives, Dorne, Escape from King's Landing, F/M, Lady lives, Minor Character Death, Minor Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, No Underage Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Multiple, Robb Lives, Sansa-centric, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 23:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceisAwesome/pseuds/IceisAwesome
Summary: Sansa doesn’t give much thought to her soulmark, not until she is trapped in King's Landing and realizes Dorne may just be her only chance at safety.Fill for the asoiafrarepairs prompt "Sansa x Doran - Soulmate AU where marks appear on the soulmates' wrists when the younger one is born. Sansa is born with Doran's name on her wrist and in Dorne, Sansa's name appears on his."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for the first section of the chapter when Joffrey attempts to burn off Sansa's soulmark. If that upsets you, it ends at the line "Sansa does not know she is screaming."

It takes far too long for her to understand.

The king had made her watch as her father lost his head, had taken her to the battlements and made her look at his rotting head (and the septa’s head, and the guards’ heads, at the heads of anyone who could have protected her.)

Staring at her father’s lifeless eyes, at the bits of skin already pecked away by crows, Sansa knows Joffrey is capable of any cruelty.

A suspicion proven right when he has her stripped and beaten, a suspicion proven right when he aims a crossbow at her heart, when blood runs down her back and thighs from the blows.

Still, he had never touched the black cloth wrapped around her wrist, even when he ordered her stripped the kingsguard never made to remove it.

Perhaps that convinced Sansa he was better than he truly was. Perhaps that convinced her Joff wouldn’t go so far.

Soulmarks are not to be touched, everyone knows that. Whether they are truly a gift from the gods, whether they are as meaningless as the high lords claim-soulmarks are not to be touched, soulmarks are not meant to be revealed.

Sansa thinks he would not stoop so low, she thinks that in this Joff would obey the laws of gods and men.

She thinks (hopes) and so it takes her far too long to understand. Sansa doesn’t understand when Joffrey grabs her hand, doesn’t focus on anything beyond the crawling of her skin as his fingers touch hers, the grotesque smile on his wormy lips. Oh, how she longs to be like Arya! How she longs to spit in his face, to wrench her hand away. But her head would join father’s own if she even dared.

Understanding does not come when he pulls the cloth away from her wrist, nothing but an instinctive protest, moving to pull her hand back, to keep him from seeing her mark-

But he doesn’t look at it. No, he doesn’t even spare her skin a glance.

“You’re mine,” he spits out, a grin on his face and madness in his eyes. “You’re mine to own, and you should know your place.” He leans to look at her, a mockery of a lover’s caress as his grasp tightens on her wrist. “No one else can have you.”

Understanding comes too late when she spots the brazier burning brightly, when he twists her wrist down and into the fire.

_It hurts, it hurts,** IT HURTS**_-

Sansa does not know she is screaming, does not know until the sound of running feet comes down the hall.

A slap rings out in the silence of the hall, Joffrey shouting in anger, another voice shouting back, but Sansa can barely hear them, cannot even make out the words. Not when sobs shake her body, not when tears drip down her face as the skin burns and burns.

“My lady? Lady Sansa…Lady Sansa!”

Finally the second voice breaks through her pained haze, Sansa looking up to see Lord Tyrion staring back at her. The king is nowhere to be found.

“It hurts,” Sansa can barely force the words out. “It _hurts_.”

“Come,” he says, worry obvious in his voice, glancing down to her bloodied and blistered wrist. “I will fetch a maester-”

“No,” she gasps out in return, “they can’t see-they can’t-”

They’ll tell the queen, she knows they will! They’ll tell the queen and they can’t, they can’t!

Lord Tyrion’s eyes soften, voice gentle as he replies, “at least allow me to escort you back to your rooms. Shae can see to you.”

Sansa only nods.

* * *

Father had thought Joffrey could be controlled.

_Even the great Tywin Lannister can be wrong,_ Tyrion thinks bitterly as he watches Shae dab at Sansa’s arm with a wet cloth.

Normally it would be a scandal to see the girl so, stripped down to her shift, but she hadn’t objected when Shae removed her dress so she could tend to her without her sleeves falling. Tyrion can see the red and raised scars on her back, can see the weeping fluids on her wrist that Shae wipes away before wrapping the bandage around her wrist. 

“M’lord,” a voice interrupts, and he turns to see Podrick, carrying the vial of milk of the poppy he fetched from Pycelle.

“I told him you needed it for a scrape,” the squire mutters nervously, catching sight of Lady Sansa and turning away, his face flushing.

“Thank you, Podrick,” he replies mechanically. Stepping forward, Tyrion offers the vial to Sansa, noting how she truly is in pain-she has made no attempt to cover herself, no attempt at preserving propriety.

“Milk of the poppy,” he says gently, seeing her frightened eyes and blank gaze. But Sansa does not move, fingers still clenched tight around her shift, until Shae speaks up.

“Lady Sansa,” she mutters soothingly, “this will stop the pain.”

Sansa takes a deep, shuddering gasp of air before finally grabbing hold of it with one delicate hand. Face still blank, tear tracks staining her cheeks, she twists open the vial and drinks deep.

* * *

“The king is mad,” she says, anger tight in her voice as they lay in bed together.

“I know,” her lion replies with a sigh, fingers playing with her hair.

“You know?” Shae finds herself demanding, twisting to look at him. “You saw what he did!”

“And I stopped it,” Tyrion replies, voice arch.

“You cannot be around her forever. Sooner or later that boy will catch her unawares and she will join her father.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” he protests, though his voice is faint, and Shae feels her lips twist into a sneer.

“The boy sees his subjects as toys, as nothing more than playthings. Sansa will do something to displease him or the boy will simply snap. Whatever the reason, she will not survive King’s Landing.”

“I can’t get her out of here,” he finally whispers.

“Then you would let her die.”


	2. Chapter 2

Through a haze of poppy sleep, Sansa struggles to open her eyes, finally blinking up at dark curls. Dark curls she soon realizes belong to her handmaiden.

“Shhh,” Shae starts as she opens her mouth, panic already coursing through her veins, “you need to rest.”

“The king-”

“Tyrion has forbid the king from seeing you,” Shae replies. _Tyrion_, not Lord Tyrion, and Sansa would wonder at the familiarity if her mind was clear enough.

“Joffrey won’t like that,” she whispers as her head hits the pillow, the pain from her arm a steady ache.

“The king,” her maid retorts, fury in her voice, “can go fuck himself.”

Her wheezing laughter echoes, the sound following even as she falls back into a drugged sleep.

* * *

It is past noon when she finally wakes, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Sansa shifts, her dazed mind wondering at the pain before the bandage catches on her quilt.

Biting back a sob-she can’t show weakness, not here, not now-she slowly rises, the silk of her shift irritating the scars on her back even as the burn continues to sting.

“You’re up,” Shae appears in the doorway, as usual lacking the courtesies a handmaiden ought to have, but she doesn’t care. Not when she_ knows_ a maid the queen provided wouldn’t help. Not when she knows anyone the queen provided wouldn’t dare to speak out against the king.

Pushing herself up, Sansa gets to her feet, swaying slightly as another jolt of pain passes through her wrist.

“I’m fine,” she insists as Shae reaches for her, the woman pulling back with a frown.

“Lord Tyrion asked if you would be up for lunch with him, my lady,” Shae says instead, Sansa grateful for the maid refusing to comment.

“I would like that,” she replies. For it is true, Tyrion is kind but far more importantly, Joffrey avoids his company.

There is quiet as her maid helps her into a dress, the sleeves longer than usual to hide the bandages wrapped around her wrist. There is quiet as Shae brushes her hair, touch far gentler than her normal tugging.

* * *

“Are you well, Lady Sansa?” Lord Tyrion asks her when she steps into the solar, mismatched eyes full of concern.

“I am,” she lies smoothly, even as the bandage wrapped around her arm undermines her words.

But he doesn’t press, only frowning as Shae had done before pushing a plate of fruit her way.

“I thought,” he starts as Sansa picks at the peach on her plate, “that we might take a trip today.”

“A trip?” she does look up at that, eyes widening. Surely he can’t be suggesting-

“I have the gold,” Lord Tyrion continues, “surely we could find some trinkets worthy of your beauty.”

“The queen, the king…they won’t like me leaving the keep,” Sansa replies, ignoring his compliment as fear and excitement mix together.

“What my _sister _thinks,” he stresses, “is of no consequence to me. As for my nephew, it is time he learns to adjust to a shorter leash. What say you? Shall we browse the markets of this fair city?”

“Yes, my lord,” she says with a smile, eyes lighting up in delight, “I would like that very much.”

* * *

The queen had taken her jewels after father was arrested. She does not know what happened to them, if they were sold or not.

_Far more likely,_ she thinks bitterly, _that Cersei kept them as a trophy._

Whatever the queen had done with them, Sansa was left without jewelry, without a chance to clothe herself as a lady of her station deserved.

The jewelry on the table before her is not nearly as fine as the ones stolen by the queen, but she still studies them, fingers running along a silver necklace strung with what seemed to be cracked bright jade.

_Like Joffrey’s eyes_, Sansa realizes as her stomach lurches, quickly dropping the necklace back on the table.

Turning to see if she could find Lord Tyrion, Sansa stills at the hand suddenly clenched around her arm. Twisting just slightly, heart pounding in her ears, she turns to see a gauntlet holding her, the armor and helm of the Lannister guardsman plain.

Her limbs go limp, she knew it was too good to last, she _knew it._

But the guard does not drag her back to the keep. Hand still wrapped around her velvet dress, he leans in close, so close she catches sight of his bright blue eyes through the slits in his helm. “Arya sent me,” the guard hisses low when she doesn’t move, his common accent apparent.

He pulls on her on arm gently, just enough for her to get the hint. She hurries on after him without sparing a glance, already weaving through the crowds around them. Lord Tyrion had been kind, yes, but Sansa would rather be a runaway than spend another second as Joffrey’s hostage.

Finally they reach an alley, the lowborn man pretending to be a guard picking up a sack and pulling cloth from it. Taking hold of the fabric, Sansa unwraps it to find a head scarf and a dirty, patched dress.

She doesn’t hesitate, unfastening the front laces on her fine dress and pulling it off, quirking a smile when the not-a-guard makes a strangled sound and turns to give her privacy.

The dress is a muddy brown, the skirt is just a few inches too high to be proper, but it is hard to care when freedom is oh so close.

* * *

The River Gate looms over them, the crumbling stone a sharp contrast to the other far more well defended gates.

Even the Lannister guards manning it are few in number, the ones on duty more focused on bantering or flirting with passing women to pay attention.

Sansa tugs on her headscarf before looking down, heart beating so fast it is a wonder no one can hear, fingers fluttering in a nervous rhythm.

They are nearly there, the rotting gate drawing closer and closer.

“Oi!” a voice calls out then, a man in the same Lannister armor as her savior squinting at the pair of them. “Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”

The man balks at that, mouth opening as he struggles for a reply-at least until a shout rings out through the streets. At least until an urchin dodges through the crowd, jumping up on a cart of fish and slamming their bare feet into the man carrying it.

The urchin lets out a whoop of laughter, dancing away from the guard’s grasping hands as the cart overturns. Seeing their chance in the chaos, as merchants yell and the fishermen cuss, Sansa takes it, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling until they run out the gates and out into the trees surrounding the bank.

They run for what feels like eternity before the shadows of the Kingswood shows in the distance, the towering trees so very close.

“Come on,” the not-a-guard hisses again, pulling her forward. Sansa wears slippers, not boots, and so her feet shake with pain as they run, as her skin aches from the scrapes and building blisters. But she would run from King’s Landing to the Wall for the chance to be free.

When they finally reach the Kingswood, her not-a-guard pulls the Lannister helmet off, settling against a tree and taking deep breaths until he finally calms, the ugly helm still in his hand.

“We did it,” she manages to whisper, fighting back hysterical laughter.

“I _did _help,” a petulant voice responds, a voice she is all too familiar with, and Sansa turns to see urchin boy from before.

Except it’s not. Even with her hair cut short and messy, even with the dirt caking her clothes and her face, Sansa recognizes her own sister. The stubborn look in her eyes, especially, is all Arya.

_I thought King’s Landing dried my tears,_ Sansa thinks even as droplets well in her eyes._ It seems I was wrong._

“No!” her sister’s voice cuts in, her panic obvious, “no, you don’t need to cry-”

Letting out a hiccuping laugh, she drags a shoddily mended sleeve across her eyes even as she steps forward.

“You saved me, Arya. You saved me and you’re alive and, and…I’ve never been happier.”

“Well,” Arya starts with a wicked grin, the same smile that always foretold trouble, “you could be happier,” gesturing towards the forest with one dirty hand.

Turned towards the trees, Sansa can see when they emerge, when a large wolf comes and is followed by a smaller one, both with yellow eyes and coats of grey.

Her legs hurt, her feet hurt, her burn scar hurts. Everything hurts and yet she still runs forward, still crashes into the smaller wolf and falls to the ground, uncaring of the mud now staining her dress.

“Oh, Lady,” Sansa whispers, “I missed you.”

* * *

Arya is skinning the rabbits caught by Lady and Nymeria, dragging away chunks of fur in rough strokes of her dull knife, when the black haired and blue eyed boy named Gendry speaks up. (Her sister had told Sansa his name, right before declaring him stupid and stubborn.)

“M’lady,” he starts hesitantly, eyes focused on Sansa. “Where are we going?”

“Riverrun.”

“Dorne.”

Both sisters speak at the same time, drawing a surprised blink from Gendry.

“Mother and Robb are at Riverrun,” her little sister argues, stopping her bloody work to scowl at Sansa.

“And the Lannisters are ravaging the Riverlands,” Sansa counters easily, “I don’t think we would be able to get to them unscathed.”

Gendry wisely interrupts, doubtlessly seeking to head off the coming tirade from her little sister.

“Why Dorne, m’lady?”

She turns her gaze to him at that, fingers pressing gently on the bandage wrapped around her wrist.

“My soulmate is Doran Martell.”

“He’s the prince of Dorne, stupid!” Arya interjects at Gendry’s blank look, prompting a sigh from Sansa.

“Dorne has always paid soulmarks more attention than the rest of Westeros. If we get to Dorne, if I show my soulmark, we should be safe.”

“That’s an awful lot of ‘if’s’,” the boy responds, blue eyes dark, but Sansa only gives a decidedly unladylike shrug, hands curled in Lady’s fur.

“No one’s fighting in the Reach or Stormlands,” Arya points out, an unexpected ally. “There’s less chance of getting hurt, long as we stay low.”

The stubborn boy pauses, looks at Sansa only to have her meet his eyes with her own steady gaze.

“Dorne it is,” Gendry says with a sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

Father had once contemplated sending her south to foster in Dorne, Sansa knows that much. Just as she knows he immediately let that idea go when mother protested.

Mother had painted a horrible picture of Dorne, had described them as savage and sinful, had refused to send her south. Moved by mother, she had been horrified at the time, furious with father for even suggesting the idea. Now, though, she finds herself wondering what could have been.

The comfort given to a highborn lady, the safety due to the prince of Dorne’s soulmate. Sansa could have had them both but she was foolish, just a stupid silly girl like Joffrey and Cersei always claimed. She could’ve been safe, but she squandered it for the chance to be queen, to be the wife of a monster.

As though sensing her melancholy mood, Lady whines in response, nuzzling her head against Sansa’s patchwork dress.

“We need a horse,” Gendry speaks up then, moving closer to Arya, though he still keeps his distance from Nymeria. 

The boy had discarded his Lannister armor at Sansa’s own request, moved when she told him of Renly’s declaration. The Lannisters are not well loved, even the additional protection afforded by metal is not worth being singled out by Renly’s forces.

“And _ how _ are we getting one?” She snaps back, an apology rising to her lips as the boy flinches before righting himself with a glare.

"_Shut up _,” Arya snarls then, eerily like her wolf as a hand rests on the thin blade at her hip. Sansa feels an all too familiar annoyance at that but bites her tongue, does her best not to retort. After all, none of them are well, tired and dirty and feeding only on what small game the wolves have managed to catch.

They can’t stop at a town or an inn, not when they run the risk of being recognized. The Reach may have no love for the Lannisters but they cannot risk it, cannot risk someone catching sight of Sansa’s red hair or Arya’s grey eyes. Too many men-too many people-would sell them back just for a chance at Lannister gold. 

“A horse would make things easier…m’lady,” Gendry belatedly adds as he looks at Sansa. “It’s faster than walking and would relieve the strain. And,” the boy adds thoughtfully, “if we need to we could eat it.”

“Then how do we get one?” Sansa asks, wincing at the feel of stone beneath her feet, bandaged hastily by strips of cloth torn from her dress.

The boy pauses, mouth opening as he thinks.

“We steal it,” her little sister declares then, eyes lighting up. “We find a town and we steal a horse.”

“It cannot be that easy,” she replies, voice skeptical, but Arya only shrugs.

“Better the risk,” Gendry interjects, “than dying before we reach Dorne.”

* * *

The trio has avoided the Roseroad the best they can, well aware even one traveler could turn them in.

Still, both Sansa and Arya know they’re far more likely to find a horse close to town.

Sansa fidgets, adjusting the cloth wrapped around her hair even as her little sister combs through her own until dirty strands fall over her grey eyes.

Banners quickly come into view, hanging from tents and staked along the road, both the golden rose of Highgarden and, Sansa realizes with dawning horror, the stag that must be the sigil of the so-called King Renly.

“Sansa?” Arya’s voice interrupts her, tilting her head much like Nymeria as she looks up at her sister.

“That’s the sigil of Renly Baratheon,” she whispers back, “who has crowned himself king. Be careful.”

Gendry makes a questioning noise from behind them, blue eyes bright, and Sansa sighs, wishing again they hadn’t sent Lady and Nymeria to wait in the woods.

“Robb is King in the North,” she tells him quietly, “and Renly thinks he should sit the Iron Throne. If Renly realizes who we are, he could use us as hostages to make Robb bend the knee.”

Gendry’s face twists into a scowl at that, disgust obvious. At that a thought comes to her, Sansa turning slightly to see his blue eyes and cropped black hair.

“What?” Arya asks again, whispering as they step closer and closer to the village walls.

“It’s just-Gendry looks an awful lot like Renly, doesn’t he?”

He goes quiet at that, even as her little sister twists around to get a better look. “He does,” Arya realizes, “he only needs longer hair.”

The boy looks even more uncomfortable, looking away as a now familiar scowl reappears on his face. Far too tired to question him, she drops the subject, back to twisting her headscarf as they reach the short walls surrounding the village.

“An entire army is camped here,” Sansa says, worry plain in her voice, “how do we manage this?”

Arya does scoff at that. “We wait till night,” she replies, “that’s all we have to do. We find a horse while everyone is sleeping and we take it.”

_ It cannot be that simple, _ Sansa thinks but does not say, wishing again she had her little sister’s confidence. 

* * *

It is not that simple. 

Oh, despite the worry gnawing at her stomach, no one paid them a second glance when they entered. Even Gendry did not receive another look, perhaps because of the dirt coating his face and hair.

Whatever the reason, it is easy enough to linger by the stables of the only inn, dismissed as just another trio of smallfolk. Arya wielding a sword would’ve have drawn attention, were it not for her passing the blade to Gendry with only a token protest.

Biting back a decidedly unladylike noise, Sansa turns in the dim light to see a pair of Tyrell soldiers walking towards the stables, doubtlessly drunk from the way their steps weave and stagger.

Her little sister notices too, hand grasping at the knife hidden in her sleeve. After being elbowed by Arya, Gendry turns as well, hand coming to rest on the Braavosi blade at his hip.

Sansa flinches back as they stagger closer and the heavy scent of wine fills the air, the all too familiar sight of Joff in a drunken rage coming back to her. It almost seems as though they will pass by, almost seems as though their improbable luck will hold.

Only one of them stops, eyes hungry as his gaze lingers on Sansa, lingers on the shape of her body the patchwork dress can’t quite hide, on her smooth skin and blue eyes.

“Well,” the drunk leers, “aren’t you a pretty thing? Boy!” he snaps out next, gaze turning to Gendry, “how much is she worth?”

“She’s not for sale,” Gendry responds, anger in his voice as he takes a step forward.

“Come on, boy,” the drunk cajoles, stepping forward and seemingly unaware of Sansa stepping back. “We can share, can’t we?”

Back now pressed against the wall, Sansa fights to breathe, dimly noticing Arya now has the knife in one hand and a gleam in her eyes.

She wants to fight, wants to run, wants to _ move _. But she freezes, words caught on her tongue as the drunk tugs a lock of red hair loose...before the second drunk sees and catches sight of Arya’s grey eyes, his own widening as realization hits.

It feels like a miracle, her body finally moving, one leg kicking up into the drunk’s crotch, the man staggering back. Before he can move forward, her little sister is on him, jabbing the knife into his bare hand and again into his neck when he bends over in pain.

Gendry is fighting the other one, Sansa knows this from the sound of steel on steel, but her gaze is fixed on Arya. Her little sister with blood on her hands and satisfaction in her eyes.

Moved from her shock by Arya’s panicked shout, she twists in time to see the soldier’s sword go through Gendry’s throat-just as his own borrowed blade catches the man in the gut.

_ “No!” _Arya screams into the suddenly silent night air. A litany of pleas fall from her lips as she sinks to the boy’s side with bloodstained hands before Sansa grabs at her shirt.

“We need to leave,” she hisses, shaking at Arya’s shoulder when her little sister doesn’t respond, grey eyes still filled with grief.

_“Arya,”_ Sansa finally says, practically begging, but that is enough to snap her sister back to her senses, grabbing the bloodied Braavosi blade and pulling it out out of the dead soldier with a sickening squelch.

Mounted on the mare’s bare back, arms wrapped around her little sister, Sansa bites at her cheek to keep from any noise escaping, staying silent even as Arya urges the horse through the camp and out into the woods.

It is only when Lady and Nymeria’s howls join the sound of hooves on dirt that she tastes the blood filling her mouth.

* * *

Everyone in Westeros knows the tale of Summerhall, of the tragedy that killed a king and the prince born there. She had once thought the tale awfully romantic, especially the part where Prince Rhaegar slept and sang under the stars while surrounded by the ruins.

Now Sansa cannot summon up any of her previous fascination, even surrounded by ruins of scorched white stone and looking up at the stars high above.

Not when her little sister refuses to talk, not when even Nymeria is unable to coax a sound from Arya.

She had to help Arya wash in the river, her little sister staring blankly down at her hands coated with Gendry’s blood.

Catching sight of the King’s Crown in the sky, bright and beautiful,Sansa wets her lips before turning her head, gazing at Arya with her hands clutching at Nymeria’s fur.

“I watched when father died,” she finally says, voice a whisper even as Arya lifts her eyes to hers. “I still dream of the way his legs twitched when Payne cut off his head. And when I don’t dream of it,” she swallows tightly, “I dream of when Joff brought me to see father’s head and made me look at it.”

“I was going to kill him,” Sansa confesses, ignoring the way Arya startles, “He was so close to the edge of the walkway when he made me look, so close I could push him over...as long as I fell with him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” her sister finally speaks, voice hoarse, “even if it meant killing Joffrey...I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Silence falls as Sansa moves, nestling against Lady’s side as she turns her gaze back to the stars.

Tired as she is, she doesn’t startle when Arya presses a hand to her bandaged wrist, merely hissing through her teeth.

“What happened?” Arya asks, bold enough to try again.

“Joffrey tried to burn it off,” her sister says dully, Lady whining in response.

Jerking her hand away, Arya frowns, knees pressed to her chest as she watches Sansa watch the stars.

“What do you think your prince will be like?” She finally asks.

"_My _ prince?” Sansa responds, though her voice is lighter.

“He’s old, isn’t he?” Arya continues on, “I bet his hair is all grey and he uses a cane and oh! I bet he has _ warts_.”

Her sister does smile at that, sad and small as it is, before sitting up, hand resting against her direwolf’s fur.

“I’ve had enough of handsome princes,” Sansa admits easily. “I just want him to love me.”

“He will,” Arya promises, reaching out in a clumsy attempt at comfort.

Her little sister falls asleep soon enough, joining their stolen mare and Nymeria, but Sansa still combs her fingers through Lady’s fur, still stares up at the stars until her eyes grow heavy.

For the first time in forever, she falls asleep without fear.


	4. Chapter 4

Few outsiders try to walk the Prince’s Pass, and none would dare to walk the Boneway.

Andrey is no more than a guard but he knows that true, just as he knows guarding the borders of Dorne is a sacred duty.

The other guards may scoff, may tell him he’ll grow out of his enthusiasm soon enough, but he is still the first to see the figures in the darkness, the shadows flickering by the light of the torches.

Jabbing an elbow into Bors, who seems half asleep already, he raises the torch, hand resting on his sheathed sword as he calls out into the night.

“Who goes there?” Andrey yells, a bleary Bors staggering to his feet as he steps forward.

Silence reigns, the figures stop in their tracks, and he calls out again.

“By order of the Prince of Dorne, who goes there?”

Hushed whispering then, something that sounds strangely like the whine of a dog, before a voice responds, clear and high.

“Sansa of House Stark,” the girlish voice echoes, “and her sister, Arya of House Stark.”

At that his fellow guardsman does perk up, voice bellowing through the canyon.

“Show yourselves!” 

Andrey only barely stifles his gasp when they step into the light. The older girl is a beauty, even with mud and blood caked on the hem of her dress, even with bandages wrapped around her feet. The younger looks more like a boy than a lady, hair cropped short and dirt on her face. What makes him gasp, though, are the wolves standing beside them. These beasts could kill the pair of them in seconds, Andrey knows just by looking.

Only when the wolf by the younger girl snarls that he remembers the northern lord named traitor, the Hand executed by the bastard king.

It seems his fellow guardsman knows more than that though, as he steps forward to meet them, stopping short when the wolves stalk forward.

“If you are truly the Lady Sansa,” Bors asks, “then you are the betrothed of the king. Why have you left King’s Landing?”

The dirt caked girl stiffens, hand moving to the thin blade on her hip even as her supposed sister doesn’t respond, blue eyes almost assessing them.

“Are you loyal to your prince?” She finally asks in a voice barely above a whisper.

_What an odd question._

“We are loyal to Prince Doran,” Andrey responds as Bors eyes the wolves, unable to keep the confusion out of his voice.

She steps forward even as the younger girl tries to grab at her arm to pull her back.

As she raises her wrist to the light of the torch, Andrey cannot hold back his gasp, cannot tear his eyes away from the blisters and red raised skin surrounding her soulmark.

The soulmark that he can now read-the soulmark with the name_ Doran Martell_.

He is still stunned to silence when his fellow guard steps forward.

“My lady,” Bors addresses her, previous suspicion gone, “we would be honored to escort you to Yronwood.”

Her blue eyes are cautious, her body tense, and Andrey feels a pang at that. Who could have done this? Who could have dared to mutilate half of their prince’s soul?

“Thank you,” the lady says finally, voice soft as a mouse.

* * *

Castle Yronwood is no great seat.

It is nowhere as large as Winterfell, nothing close to the grandeur of the Red Keep, and yet Sansa feels as though she could weep watching the grey stone rise in the distance.

The sun is rising in when they reach the gates, the young guard with nervous eyes turning to help her down from the horse. She cannot help stumbling, bandaged feet catching on the scattered rock. The guard catches her, blue eyes widening in alarm, before Sansa manages to right herself.

“Wake Lord Yronwood,” the other guard demands when the gate guards walk to meet them, helm glinting in the dawn light.

Perhaps it is the urgency in his voice, perhaps it is the way Sansa leans down, trying not to hiss in pain even as the other guard clutches at her arm, perhaps it is even Arya’s glare or the wolves watching them.

Whatever the reason, the gates open in minutes.

Despite the pain stabbing at her wrist, despite the way her scars ache and feet bleed anew, Sansa straightens as the lord of Yronwood steps closer.

It is clear he has just been fetched from bed, his yellow hair uncombed and clothes in disarray even as he strides forward.

“Lord Yronwood,” the other guard bows as the lord’s gaze sweeps across their strange party before stopping at Sansa, doubtlessly caught by the way she clings to the guard.

“What is the meaning of this?” The lord booms, arms crossed over his belly even as he eyes them.

“I am Sansa of House Stark,” she interrupts the guard moving to speak, raising her gaze to meet the lord’s even as her entire body aches. “Soulmate to your Prince Doran.”

It hurts, oh it hurts, but Sansa still manages a small curtsy, eyes flicking up to catch the shock in his eyes.

* * *

The maester the fat lord sends is stooped with age, hair all white and hands liver spotted.

Still, Arya concedes, he seems to know what he’s doing well enough.

The man had washed the dirt and blood from Sansa’s feet before applying an ointment and ordering the same for Arya. The maid by his side tried to lead her to a bath after but gave up easily when she refused to leave her sister.

Licking pomegranate juice from her fingers and taking another from the plate laden with fruit, she turns to watch as the maester gently takes Sansa’s wrist in his hand. The same look flashes across his face as the guards and the lord, the same look of horror and shock and something that seems like grief.

“The gods are good,” the old man finally says, “your mark is not infected.”

Her sister, previously still and silent, stirs at that, eyes shining in relief.

“Is there anything else, my lady?” The maester asks, eyes keen as even as his hands tremble.

Arya scoffs, opening her mouth when her sister hesitates.

_“Sansa.”_

Her sister matches the reproach with a rueful smile, turning back to look at the man. 

“I have scars,” her sister says plainly. “Recent wounds that were not treated by a maester.”

“On-” Sansa swallows, tries again even as her voice trembles, “on my back and across my thighs.”

The maester does stiffen at that, eyes flashing with anger.

Arya's hand drops to Needle at her hip, Nymeria lets out a warning snarl, even Lady growls lowly.

"I am sorry," the old man says, stopping in his tracks, "I merely-I will do everything within my power to heal you, my lady."

_Why,_ Arya wonders as the maester turns,_ does he seem so sad?_


	5. Chapter 5

“Brother?”

Oberyn speaks yet he can hardly hear, his brother’s voice muffled as though far away, as though he is underwater. 

The sound of boots on stone comes closer, Oberyn’s voice echoes again, and still Doran cannot speak, still his brother’s voice sounds faint and far away, his throat tight and the air suffocating.

“Brother?” He hears Oberyn come to a stop beside him, his heels finally ceasing their clacking on the floor. 

“How do you feel?” his brother asks, his voice unexpectedly gentle.

“Like I am drowning in the Greenblood.” The words slip out before he can stop them. 

Doran finally looks up at Oberyn, takes in the worry in his brother’s dark eyes, sees the frown twisted around the mouth made for laughing.

Silence reigns in his solar, broken only by the sounds of children’s laughter in the pools outside, when he opens his mouth to speak again.

“Our friends in King’s Landing brought word of _her_,” Doran emphasizes, hesitant to say her name even in the heart of Dorne, pressing a hand to the mark on his wrist.

“And?” Oberyn asks, cautious for once, for his brother is clever and quick despite his reckless nature, his brother knows all too well what his hesitance could mean.

“Is she-” Oberyn cannot bear to say it, cutting off as he settles a calloused hand on the arm of Doran’s chair.

“No,” he breathes out, hating how his voice trembles. “No.”

Slowly, heart aching as much as his hands, Doran passes the letter in his lap to Oberyn, shaking his head when his brother moves to open it.

“I received news this past month of rumors that said the king had done grievous harm to the lady,” he finally says, looking up into Oberyn’s eyes. “But they told me no more, not knowing of my true reasons, and I tasked them with investigating further-when word reached me that she had disappeared from King’s Landing. Followed by this letter from Lord Yronwood.”

“Lord Yronwood?” Oberyn says, disbelief dripping from his words, and Doran does sigh at that, fingers clutching at the red silk of his shirt.

“She is alive,” he tells himself as much as Oberyn, “but I have failed her.”

He expects chastisement from Oberyn, after all, his brother had insisted on Doran meeting her. Oberyn was ever the romantic, though he hid it well, and he often claimed that he merely wanted his brother to find the same happiness he had found with his soulmate Ellaria. But while a prince of Dorne could find happiness with a lowborn soulmate, Doran knew he could not dare to grasp for Sansa Stark. Not when she was over three decades younger than him, not when those outside of Dorne paid no heed to the sacred marks.

Oh, he had written to her lord father once, drunk on grief and wine. But Stark never responded, and despite Oberyn urging him, Doran had never written again.

“Read it,” he commands, turning his gaze to the marble pools below as his brother unfolds the letter.

Closing his eyes, he suppresses a shiver as Oberyn begins to read, the contents still fresh in his mind.

_The lady Sansa arrived at Castle Yronwood three days ago,_ he recalls reading, tracing the words written in ink. _With her sister, the lady Arya, and a pair of wolves. Her feet were bleeding through clumsy bandages, her skin was burned and cracked. She will not speak of her time in the capital either, save to say the worst of her wounds came from there. These wounds include scars, as though from a whip or the blunt end of a blade, that mar her back and her thighs. And, I know not how to say it, my prince, but her soulmark is burned, as though someone held it to a torch or brazier. You know my maester to be the finest of men, and thus I trust you to trust me when I say he believes her wounds are not as grave as they appeared. Of course, the ladies Stark enjoy my hospitality, and will for as long as you command. I await your orders. _

Oberyn makes a wounded sound beside him, low and hurt, and Doran opens his eyes, certain his brother has finished reading.

“Word from King’s Landing has arrived since then. They say the king has raged over the loss of his would-be bride-that he brought to mind not his father, but the dragon that sat the throne before him in his rage."

“You think Joffrey did it,” his brother does not ask.

“I think I told myself it would do no good to insist on her coming south,” he clenches his fingers tight, even as the pain spreads from his swollen knuckles. “I told myself she would find joy away from Dorne, that Lord Stark’s silence was for the best.”

“I have betrayed half of my soul.” His voice is little more than a whisper, yet his brother hears it all the same. 

“You could have risked war, had you insisted,” Oberyn responds, voice still damnably gentle. “And if you had not, you would still be taking her away from all she knew.”

“And yet she would be safe!” He snaps, feeling the boiling rage Oberyn spoke so often of, for the first time in years.

“I care not for your pity,” he adds, ignoring the wounded look in his brother’s eyes.

Finally Oberyn sets down the letter on the table next to his chair, eyes sharp again as he turns his gaze to his brother.

“Her father lost her head and still she continued on. She managed to escape King’s Landing, though we know not how, and she made it to Dorne. She made it here with nothing but a pair of wolves and a younger sister, if what Lord Yronwood claims is true. Your lady is _strong,_ brother. I know she will heal.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Doran asks, blood now swelling from his palms as his nails dig in further.

“She will,” his brother replies, utterly confident. “You underestimate your soul.” 


End file.
